


Something Like Home Again

by getluckywithbucky



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky Has a Therapy Dog, Deaf Clint Barton, Deaf Steve Rogers, Domestic Fluff, F/M, House Hunting, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-02-11 01:30:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2048115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/getluckywithbucky/pseuds/getluckywithbucky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They hadn't planned on being injured, but no one ever plans to lose a limb or their hearing. Steve and Bucky learn to live with each other again in a new city after injury and recovery.</p><p>The only real complaint Bucky has is that Steve keeps forgetting to wear his hearing aids.</p><p>His sister wishes he'd stop leaving his arm lying around her house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Nothing made sense. There were voices, muffled, and flashes of light through his barely open eyes, his lashes a screen between the dark and the bright. He was jostled and moved, hands gripping him and for a moment he felt weightless but he wasn’t sure if it was just in his head or not.

He knew he hurt. He could feel the pain, in a distant, abstract kind of way. He knew he _should_ hurt. Instead, he felt numb, distant. He faded out.

When he was next aware, everything was blessedly still. There were no voices, only a gentle hum and a soft beeping. He drifted back to sleep.

 

Awareness came in stages; Bucky had been told, once, that hearing is the last sense to go when unconscious and the first to return when coming to. It didn’t happen all at once; it was gradual. The first thing Bucky was aware of was being able to think. Sounds came in slowly, gently, like a wind-blown wave on still water.

He knew he was hearing voices, two women talking in hushed tones that he couldn’t make out. One was familiar. The concern was plain in her inflection, clearer with each passing moment, and Bucky must have said something because the next thing he was aware of was a pressure – a smaller, softer hand – grasping his fingers tightly.

“Buck?” Rebecca didn’t speak loudly, but the closeness made his head ring and he winced, squeezing his eyes tighter shut. He was in the hospital, it was the only explanation, because Rebecca Proctor lived in Oregon and Bucky had spent the better part of the last 10 years traveling from one tactical military position to another in places civilians would never be allowed. He cracked one eye open and immediately slammed them closed again. The darkness was better.

“W’appen?” he rasped out, voice cracking and the words getting lost on his dry tongue.

Rebecca understood him, anyway, and he felt her shift next to him and then felt the press of a cup to his lips. He took greedy gulps as she spoke, “There was a bomb. They barely got you out. It was... it was pretty touch and go for a while.”

She took the cup away, and Bucky slowly tried to open his eyes again. He was more successful this time, blinking to try and clear the haze and the over-brightness of the overhead fluorescent lights. A bomb explained the pain he knew he should be feeling, and the drugs they’d probably pumped into him explained the numbness. Bucky cleared his throat, slowly adjusting eyes falling to his sister.

She was wearing a wrinkled t-shirt, her brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail to hide the fact that it was a little greasy, and it was the first time Bucky can remember her not wearing make-up outside of the house. Her brown eyes were red-rimmed behind her glasses. He wondered how bad he looked, in comparison.

Probably a lot worse. He was afraid to look, to really take stock of what was wrong. Bucky leaned back into the pillow.

“How long?”

“You’ve been out for three weeks,” Rebecca paused, like she wasn’t sure if Bucky needed to know the rest, “They weren’t sure you’d wake up the first week, but you did and they had to put you in a medically induced coma.”

She stopped short, her grip on his hand tightening. He squeezed back. “Hey –”

“You wouldn’t stop screaming and your sutures ripped and –”

He wanted to reach for her, pull her into a hug, but his body wasn’t cooperating. It must have been the drugs.

His shoulder itched.

Bucky looked down.

 

Rebecca wasn’t there when he next woke up, which was probably for the best because she needed to sleep and shower and sitting there worrying about him wasn’t doing her any good. It took him a few minutes to manage to get his head completely clear after the latest dose of morphine. There was no doubt that he needed it. Bucky didn’t want to think about why.

If he didn’t think about it, he could pretend there was nothing wrong. Denial probably wasn’t the best course of action, but it was better than having a panic attack that would just end up with him being drugged back into unconsciousness. Again.

At 10:30, his doctor pushed her way into the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a soft click. Her dark brown hair was neatly pulled into a tight bun, every strand perfectly in place and her entire outfit pressed and without a single wrinkle. There wasn’t a single stain or crease on her lab coat, and Bucky wondered if maybe she kept spares in her office so she could always look stern and intimidating. Her smile when she spoke, though, was kind. “Sergeant Barnes, I’m Dr. Maria Hill. I’ve been in charge of your care.”

“Hey, Doc. Call me Bucky, okay? I’ve got a feelin’ I’m at the end of my military career.” Bucky pointedly didn’t look to his left.

Dr. Hill sat, slowly, in the chair to his right, legs crossing and shoulders relaxing some in the movement. “I’m not going to lie to you, you’re not in the best of shape right now, though you’re certainly doing better than you were. Fractured hip, tibia, clavicle, and four cracked ribs, plus some internal bleeding early on.”

She paused, locking eyes with Bucky. He knew what was coming, had seen it himself and had tried to pretend, to no avail, that it was just a hallucination or a bad dream. Anyone who’d been a soldier as long as he had always had that nightmare, always worried that it would be _them_. Bucky had never really thought about it; his specialty often kept him away from people, and the idea had been so farfetched that it after his first tour he never thought about it. He wondered if maybe that was why he hadn’t panicked.

“You also sustained serious damage to your left arm. We salvaged what we could, but the blast didn’t leave much behind.” He wasn’t expecting her to smile, “Luckily, most of the humerus was minimally damaged.”

Bucky could only bring himself to nod. He wasn’t entirely sure why that was important. Yeah, it was great that he still had _most_ of his arm, but how exactly was he supposed to feel about the fact that he used to have a whole arm and now only had half?

Dr. Hill spoke for a while longer, telling him about caring for the wound, his options, and warning him to avoid straining himself. Bucky didn’t know exactly how much a one armed man could really over-exert himself when stuck in a hospital bed and so doped up on pain-killers that it was a miracle he was coherent enough to even have a conversation. Just moving from his hospital bed was at the bottom of his list of things to do in the immediate future, and by the time Dr. Hill stood, he felt himself starting to drift.

She didn’t stay much longer and Bucky didn’t stop his pain med induced exhaustion from dragging him back to sleep.

 

Maria brought him information packets about prosthetics. She’d cut back his morphine, citing his smooth healing as the reason but Bucky knew there was more to it than that. Decisions had to be made, and who better to make them then the person they’d actually be affecting? He didn’t doubt that if Rebecca was still in town, Dr. Hill would have deferred to her.

There were five different brochures, and all of them had smiling, well-adjusted looking people on the covers and big, optimistic lettering declaring the miracle of prosthetic limbs.

Bucky stared at them for a few minutes, considering. He needed to read them, knew his sister would give him that disappointed “you’re not even trying” face if he didn’t, but he couldn’t bring himself to flip open the first one. It wasn’t even that looking at them would make it all real, even though that was definitely a part of it. Mostly, he didn’t want to look because none of them could actually replace what he’d lost.

Yeah, a prosthetic arm would make a ton of difference in his day to day activity. But so far, the most difficulty he’d really had was the first time the nurses brought him a sealed pudding cup. The damn thing was nearly impossible to open with only one hand and a nub to brace the packaging on and he’d stared at it, with increasing frustration, for nearly ten minutes.

He’d finally pulled the plastic seal off with his teeth and ended up with his chest covered in tapioca. After that, his food was dropped off already opened.

A prosthesis likely wouldn’t make much difference, and he threw out two of the brochures featuring the widest, brightest smiles on perfect faces.

Dr. Hill insisted otherwise.

“James, you need to at least consider it. You can live a normal enough life without; thousands of people do, but if you can make it at least a little easier –”

“Yeah, yeah. I should try one on for size and hope that it’ll miraculously make it easier to do the dishes or type 55 words per minute.”

Dr. Hill, to her credit, just smirked at his sarcasm and refused to rise to the bait. Bucky admired her for it, admired her for not letting his attitude get to her, and he felt just the slightest bit better for it when she jabbed a finger at him and called him an asshole. “Look, you and I both know you’re in for a hard ride here, and things aren’t going to be easy. But you owe it to yourself to not be a little shit about it.”

Bucky grinned at her and she grinned back, “Yeah, okay. Sign me up, Doc.”

 

Once he stopped being stubborn, things became easier. The prosthesis that his insurance covered was simple, chrome and flesh colored plastic that clicked when he moved his shoulder just right, and it did make things a little easier if he was being honest. Bucky didn’t tell his sister when she came back to the hospital with her husband and daughter in tow.

Kim was a great distraction, fascinated by the fake arm and more than happy to curl up on the narrow hospital bed with her uncle, little voice making demands. Rebecca didn’t bring her every day, but it was a close thing and Bucky wouldn't have complained if she did. The near constant visits helped to keep him occupied and had the extra benefit of helping him get used to both the prosthetic and those days when it was too exhausting to strap the thing on and it was easier to just let it go.

He tried not to think about the fact that he hadn’t heard from Steve since before the bombing.

 

They discharged him 128 days after he was admitted. Even then, Dr Hill made Bucky swear to take it easy and to defer to Rebecca until he’d had a chance to adjust to life outside, not just the hospital, but outside of the military. Rebecca's home was across the country, and at first Bucky was hesitant to go so far from Brooklyn. He realized quickly that it wasn't home without the people that filled all the cracks of his childhood memories. Without Rebecca and Steve, Brooklyn was just another place. Portland, he knew, was just as good a place as any.

“It’s not like I can really do too much right now,” he rolled his eyes as he lifted what was left of his left arm, the temporary plastic-and-metal prosthetic packed away in its carrying case. He didn’t particularly like wearing it.

Dr Hill gave him a look, the one she reserved for when he was been particularly frustrating. “If anyone could get in trouble with one arm and a limited range of motion, it’d be you.”

Bucky would have argued, but there was no point – she wasn't wrong.

 

It was March when he settled into the guest bedroom at Rebecca’s house in Portland, and he hadn’t heard from Steve since Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is domestic fluff, pure and simple. I have difficulty writing fluff sometimes and everything ends up covered in angst, but so far so good. This is a multipart fluff-fest featuring some pure silliness but also some more serious themes. I've done a good deal of research on therapy dogs, military discharge, hearing loss, and loss of limb, but as I have no experience personally with any of these things, I'm bound to make some mistakes. Please don't take any mistakes personally, and don't hesitate to let me know if there's an error! I will happily work on it!
> 
> This will be between 8 and 12 parts.


	2. Text Messages and Chocolate Oatmeal

Rebecca, like many in Portland, rents her home. Between her, her husband, and Kim, the place feels homey and warm, less like an apartment and more like someplace permanent and safe. Bucky thinks their decision to rent had something to do with property taxes and cost of maintenance on pre-war buildings, but he’d been stationed in the Middle East when Rebecca told him and a lot of the stuff they talked about went in one ear and out the other. Just hearing her voice was enough, knowing that his baby sister was happy and healthy while he sweltered in his desert camo and, occasionally, took the high ground to take out a target.

He didn’t talk about what he did when they had their monthly phone calls.

Rebecca’s place is nice, though, Bucky thinks, with big doorways and windows that let in the early Spring sunlight, and hardwood floors that creak with every step anyone takes. It’s a lot nicer than the hospital was and infinitely better than his previous 10 years sleeping on uncomfortable military cots and hard desert ground.

It would be nicer if his niece would stop trying to use him as a balancing beam, but it’s a small price to pay to have someone he can bribe to act as his gopher when he leaves his things in another room. Bucky’s comfortable where he is, laying on his stomach on the living room floor, and Kim is just heavy enough to crack his back as she practices staying upright on his spine. He moves, just enough to make the little girl lose her balance and topple over with a squeal of laughter.

“You can’t move, okay!” The child demands, draping herself over his shoulder and glaring at him.

Bucky laughs, “Grab my phone off the couch and I’ll be good.”

Kim scurries to comply, rushing past her mother. Becca snorts, “I feel like, as a mother, I should be more concerned than I am about you teaching my 4 year old how to play fetch.”

When Kim comes back, cell phone clutched in her hands, Bucky grins up at his sister. Becca rolls her eyes, easing the phone from her daughter and tossing it at her brother’s head. Bucky’s grin widens. His phone vibrates.

“C’mon, Kimmy. I made lunch.”

It’s March, and when he glances down at his phone, he has a text message from Steve Rogers.

_[11:42] Cap’n Crunch: Back in Brooklyn. Still in hospital?_

Bucky stares at the message. God, he realizes, Steve doesn’t even really know what happened. His discharge wasn’t exactly a secret, but the circumstances certainly were, and Steve had been largely incommunicado when Bucky was knocked out of commission. Rebecca had contacted him, but had been vague on the details because even she hadn’t known if he was going to pull through.

How, exactly, does someone tell their best friend that they’re across the country and missing a limb?

It takes him a while to reply, slower with one hand and still not sure what to say.

_[11:54] Bucky: W/ Becca in Portland. Doc wouldn’t let me go without her._

Steve doesn’t reply immediately, and Bucky knows that he’s probably running through all the horrible things that could mean.

_[11:56] Cap’n Crunch: You okay? No one would tell me._

It’s the question of the year, he figures, how he is, and there’s a part of him that doesn’t really know the answer to that question. He’s alive, which is really the ultimate goal, but Bucky isn’t entirely sure if that counts as being “okay.” “Okay” is subjective, so damn inconsistent and Bucky almost hates the word. He’s not okay, probably never will be again.

But he’s coping, he’s alive, and he’s very nearly functioning, and Steve is worried about him, hasn’t forgotten him, so when he replies, it’s with a small grin.

_[12:07] Bucky: Can’t open pudding cups very well with 1 arm apparently._

Steve’s response is quick, like he’d already typed the message.

_[12:08] Cap’n Crunch: I’m sorry I’m not there_

_[12:11] Bucky: It’s okay_

_[12:14] Bucky: Why’re you back stateside?_

He’s not sure he wants the answer, really, not when he knows Steve still has another 5 months in his most recent tour and never strays far from whatever base he’s stationed at when on leave. Steve’s spent more time on foreign soil than he has home, always hated the silence of his apartment and what his ex-wife called “depression errands” after his mother’s passing.

_[12:15] Cap’n Crunch: IED. Army doesn’t want a deaf officer._

For a moment Bucky feels like his heart has stopped, and his world tilts. It’s not fair, but fairness never really seems to matter when it comes to being shot at or blown up. Steve’s not allowed to be injured, he’s not supposed to ever be in danger. Bucky’s the one that gets shiners and thrown by exploding vehicles in hot deserts.

_[12:17] Bucky: Shit. Ain’t we a pair._

When Steve replies, it’s just a smiley at first, a stupid colon end parenthesis, and Bucky feels his panic at Steve’s being injured ease as another text comes through.

He doesn’t get a chance to read it. Becca pops her head into his room, hands gripping the doorframe, “I’m taking Kim to the park. You coming with us, or did she already wear you out for the day?”

 

He goes with them. He’s glad that the lesser injuries – and, really, all his injuries are lesser compared to the 7 inches of humerus he has left – have mostly healed, only the hip still causing him any discomfort and even that was far less painful than the pitying looks and second glances he’d been putting up with from complete fucking strangers. Every time it happens he wants to both cringe away and get in their faces, stare them down. He doesn’t do either, instead does his best to ignore them, to remind himself that at least he’s alive.

It usually works.

But as he sits next to his sister, watching Kim climb (and fall from) the monkey bars, Bucky finds it easier to ignore the looks. Not just because of them, his overprotective baby sister and her monkey-child, but because now he knows that Steve’s going to need him to be, if not whole, alive and there for him like they’ve always been for each other. He smiles down at the dirt path, scuffing his feet and watching the dust kick up.

Becca notices. “Look at you, smiling in public. What’s got you grinning?”

Bucky has to stop himself from frowning to cover up the smile, a habit he doesn’t remember picking up but that’s there nonetheless, “I heard from Steve this morning.”

Her face brightens and she sits up straight from her perch on the bench. It was a badly kept secret, 10-year-old Rebecca Barnes’s horrible crush on skinny, gangly 14-year-old Steve Rogers, but the boy in question had never made her feel bad about it and was only ever respectful and kind to the excitable little girl. Even if Bucky had teased Becca mercilessly over it, Steve’s kindness never failed to make Bucky’s chest constrict and his heart to feel like it was going to burst from his chest. Becca may have had a crush, but Bucky had never loved anyone more (and had never been more afraid to say a word).

“So how is he? Is he almost done with his tour? Did you tell him – ”

Bucky cuts her off with a shush, “Yeah, I told him. He’s been discharged, too. Permanent hearing loss. He’s back in Brooklyn.”

Her eyes widen, “Shit.”

“That’s what I said.”

 

It’s not until later that night as he drags himself into bed that Bucky finally looks at Steve’s last text.

_[12:20] Cap’n Crunch: I wish I was with you. Brooklyn feels less like home without you here._

He glances at the clock. It’s almost 1 am in New York, and Bucky feels like an asshole, the twang of guilt deep in his gut for not answering sooner. Steve’s probably asleep, always an early-to-bed type, but better a late reply than no reply at all, and Bucky can never stand to leave Steve hanging. And God, it’s not hard to reply to, because Bucky misses Steve too, not like a limb because he knows what that feels like now, but like a low burning simmer, a feeling he’s lived with for as long as he’s known the other man, something he clutches to his chest and that’s just as important as the air he breathes.

[22:33] Bucky: Me too. Ain’t felt like home anywhere lately.

Steve doesn’t reply that night.

 

The next morning, there’s still no reply, and Bucky can’t help but wonder what he did wrong.

He tries not to think about it, but as he pulls up his lounge pants and drags a tshirt over his head, it’s all that’s on his mind.

Once, when they were teenagers and they’d caught a couple of boys beating up another boy and screaming things like “fag” and “fucking fairy,” Steve had said that he didn’t understand why people hated others for who they loved. They’d dragged the boys off their target, sent them running home, and had escorted the bruised and bloodied boy to the nearest hospital. He was a nice kid (and god, Bucky can’t even remember his name now, but he remembers the date they went on a year later, the way the other boy’s hands had felt in his hair and on his hips and the way he’d bitten down on Bucky’s jaw), and Steve was so goddamn indignant that anyone could ever just attack someone over something like that.

Sometimes Bucky wondered if that tolerance would extend to him if Steve ever found out that his best friend had been in love with him since before he really could understand what that fluttery feeling meant.

Reading the text he had sent now, in the light of day and a full 8 hours of sleep, makes him cringe. It was sappy and so fucking obviously besotted that he has to stop himself from attempting to pull off tactical damage control for his stupidity.

Steve’s lack of reply is hardly surprising, honestly, and Rebecca notices his preoccupation when he comes down to the kitchen in search of caffeine. Kim is still asleep, and John, he assumes, he out for his morning jog, but Becca is leaning against the kitchen counter, green coffee mug clutched in both hands. There’s what looks like oatmeal gurgling on the stove, but Bucky ignores it in favor of making a beeline for the coffee pot on the counter. There’s already a mug there, and he’s grateful it’s one of the heavy clay ones that won’t slide around or fall over without a hand to brace it. He hadn’t bothered with the prosthetic arm when he got dressed.

Becca doesn’t offer to pour it for him, even when his right arm shakes with a bit with the strain, and Bucky pointedly doesn’t thank her for that, pretends like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before (it’s not and it is). He only spills a few drops.

They don’t speak until Rebecca pours her second (that he’s seen) cup. “You’re up early.”

Bucky glances at the clock on the microwave as he takes a long sip of his coffee (black, no sugar), shrugging as best he can. 6 am on a Saturday is a bit ridiculous, he figures, but it wasn’t like he was the only one awake. He gives her a pointed look and she waves him off, unfazed by his accusing gaze.

He takes another sip of his coffee, and Becca doesn’t press. “I went to bed early, I guess.”

She stares at him, her eyebrows raised and the tilt of her lips suggesting “bullshit.” She sets her coffee down and turns to the stove, stirring the light brown, chocolatey oatmeal and turning the temperature down, “Anything to do with Steve?”

Bucky takes a deep breath, holding the scent of coffee and chocolate as long as he can. Their mom had always made oatmeal like that, with just a little chocolate, whenever one or both of them was sick or if they’d been bullied or, when they were teenagers, if they’d had relationship problems. Fred Barnes had made a lot of chocolate oatmeal for her children. It was nice to just smell it again, to feel his entire body relax. His sister obviously thought he needed comfort food.

She wasn’t wrong.

He sighs, putting his coffee cup down on the counter and pulling himself up onto a stool. “You ever send a text message and then regret it the next day?”

Becca snorts, “Is water wet? Of course I have. What, did you confess your undying love or something?”

He flushes, staring down out the counter, “Jesus, Bec, blunt much?”

She laughs, “Oh my _god_ , you fucking did, didn’t you?”

Not in so many words, but the premise was the same and Bucky let his head drop with a soft thud to the countertop. It was vague, vague in that way that there was plausible deniability but a backtrack would be obvious and probably awkward.

His voice is small when he says, “I told him he’s my home.”

Becca looks downright _gleeful_ when he looks up, like she about to explode, so he quickly adds, “But he said it first.”

She blinks, grin still firmly fixed on her face and her brown eyes sparkling, “You two are too fucking cute, I swear to God.”

Bucky rolls his eyes and shifts on the stool. “Yeah, except he’s not replying now and, fuck, what if I crossed a line?”

“Or maybe,” Becca says before Bucky can go off on a spiraling tangent of self-loathing, “you’re overthinking it and he just hasn’t seen it yet. It’s, what, 9:30 on the east coast right now?” Bucky nods and she plows on, “And you said his hearing is shot now – don’t you think it’s probably more likely that he just hasn’t heard it? Or slept through his alarm or something.”

Bucky deflates. She’s probably right, and he’s an idiot for worrying over nothing. He’s always worried over everything when it comes to Steve, and Becca – who’s had to live with it in one way or another for 28 years – knows how he can talk himself into a panic. It hardly matters that he hasn’t seen Steve in person in nearly 4 years; Steve makes him stupid. He stares down at the black countertop, scrapping at a spot with this thumb. Becca slides a bowl of oatmeal in front of his

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and she gently knocks her knuckles against his tender left shoulder and when he looks up, she’s smiling, softly, at him. The noise that makes its way out of his throat is involuntary, but when he leans over and pulls his baby sister into the tightest hug he can manage with just one arm, it’s completely on purpose. She squeezes back just as tightly.

When she pulls away, he eyes are wet but in true Barnes fashion she’s grinning, “Okay, you lug, eat your damn oatmeal and stop your bellyaching.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, and there’s nothing but fondness in his voice. She’s right, of course she is, and he eats the oatmeal like a starving man.

When he checks his phone a few hours later, there’s a text from Steve.

_[7:25] Cap’n Crunch: I’ll see you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you see any glaring mistakes, please let me know! Updates will likely be fairly sporadic, as I'm starting my first semester of law school tomorrow and will no longer have a life outside of reading casebooks and crying into my cups of alcohol and coffee. But I will be updating when I can, so there's that. We'll get to the domestic fluff soon!


	3. Maple Bacon Donuts and a Question

Steve hadn’t been joking about it being soon, and Bucky feels like he should be more surprised than he is when he gets the text message two days later that just says “ _At PDX. Address?_ ”

It’s early afternoon and the early Spring chill is chased away, just a little, by the warm sun overhead. Bucky has to turn his body to even see the screen in the bright light and thinks that maybe he’s misread it, because there’s no way that Steve just hopped on a plane and flew cross-country on a fucking whim.

Except for the fact that it’s exactly the sort of thing that the blond man would do – that he had done, back when he’d been in college and he and Peggy were in the first few months of their relationship, and Bucky had called Steve at 3 in the morning, drunk, complaining about how miserable he was at home in Brooklyn. He woke up the next morning, hungover and miserable, to Steve, with his ridiculous shoulders, cooking him the most disgustingly greasy breakfast and Peggy, hair and make up perfect despite the overnight flight, sat on his couch looking through an old issue of Popular Mechanics she’d found on the floor.

So it wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that Steve really had decided to drop everything and fly out just to see him. He replied the only way he could think to.

[1:08] Bucky: _Are you shitting me rn_

 

The knock on the door comes an hour later, but Bucky doesn’t believe it at first. It’s not until Becca’s shouting for him from across the house that Bucky even entertains the idea that, maybe, Steve Rogers got on a plane and flew cross country because of a fucking _text message_. He moves slowly towards the living room, where he hears the thump of a bag hitting the floor and the creak of the couch where someone is sitting down.

He peeks around the corner and he’s like a little kid on Christmas, trying to steal a glimpse of Santa (or, as the case had been once, his mom) putting presents under the tree. The swooping in his gut and the tight pull of his chest when he sees Steve sitting there on the couch is that perfect combination of wonderful and painful, and Bucky has to take a deep breath to compose himself. It’s really Steve there looking huge on Becca’s couch and Bucky has to stop the sound threatening to escape his mouth at the sight.

He’s told Steve that he missed him too, but it isn’t until he sees him there that it really hits him just how _much_ and how deep that feeling went.

It also hits him that he’s wearing grass-stained sweatpants, an equally disgusting shirt, and his prosthetic arm is laying on the coffee table in the living room. He pads back to his room, silently cursing at himself for leaving the stupid thing lying around again, and changes into less disgusting clothes as quickly as he can.

He’s pulling a fresh shirt over his head when Becca pushes his door open, “Hurry it up, Captain Beefcake’s waiting.”

“Oh my god, where did you even come up with that?” Bucky snorts his laughter, checking the tie on his pants.

Becca raises an eyebrow, “You’ve seen him, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go keep him company, okay? I gotta find some socks.” He turns around, preparing to rummage in the bureau, and gets hit in the back with a pair of sandals for his trouble.

“Stop stalling, asshole.”

Sometimes Bucky hates how perceptive his brat sister is. He takes a few deep breaths after she leaves the room, and can’t deny that he’s definitely stalling. Sure, Steve’s his best friend, but the last time they’d seen each other they’d both been whole people, more or less, and Bucky wasn’t sure if Steve really understood how bad it really was. Hell, he wasn’t sure himself how bad off Steve was. It was like fumbling in the dark, for both of them, and he was terrified that he’d find himself alone.

He takes a deep breath. In. Out. In again, and he tries to stave off the tightness in his chest, the feeling like something is wrapping its hands around his heart and his lung. He exhales, slowly, steadily, and takes another breath and he’s as ready as he’s going to get, all things considered.

Becca and Steve are talking in the living room, and Bucky wasn’t exactly sure what he was expecting (maybe for Steve to have his head swaddled in bandages), but it wasn’t Steve smiling brightly, one hearing aid visible from where Bucky stands in the entry way. It’s not huge and Bucky only noticed it so easily because he was looking for it. The fact that he’s already wearing the hearing aids says a lot – mostly, that the injury that cost Steve his hearing is months old and Bucky only found out in the last week.

He scowls and stomps forward, but his angry words die in his throat when Steve turns and sees him, his stupid smile widening until Bucky feels like he’s staring into the sun, soon to burn away into nothing but thankful ash.

He barely registers when Steve stands, because god he’s missed that smile, the warmth that’s all directed at him now. He definitely registers it when he’s suddenly pulled into Steve’s arms, engulfed by his bigger body (and he’s always been so warm, and that hasn’t changed) and Bucky just wants to stay there forever. He grabs onto the back of Steve’s shirt with his right hand and clings with a low laugh.

“Heya, Stevie.”

Steve’s arms tighten around him, his warm breath against Bucky’s neck as he pushes his head into the grove of his shoulder and Bucky can feel his smile against his skin.

 

They stand there clinging to each other for longer than either of them would like to admit, and only separate when Becca comes in and clears her throat. Kim is standing by her side, and the two of them make a hilarious sight, both with their hands on their hips and fake-stern looks on their faces.

Steve’s never been able to hide a blush, and Bucky watches gleefully as he starts turning red at the ears first until it reaches his neck. He opens his mouth, probably to apologize, but Bucky’s not having any of that and tosses his arm over Steve’s shoulder. “C’mon, you’re probably hungry. Beck, you want anything from the deli?”

“Nah, I’m on mac and cheese duty,” Becca says, ruffling Kim’s hair and shooing them off, and Bucky grins. Steve, next to him, is clearly suffering from Barnes-related whiplash.

 

The walk to deli is short, and it’s the first time since he moved into the Proctor household that Bucky actually goes somewhere without his sister with him. He almost feels accomplished.

 

They’re mostly quiet on the way to the deli and as they order their food. It’s not that Bucky has nothing to say – he has plenty to say – but it’s nice to just be near Steve. Neither of them really says much of anything until they sit at one of the covered tables outside.

“I can’t believe you actually did the ‘flying cross-country on a whim’ thing _again_.” Bucky says, dipping his fingers in his water and flicking his fingers at Steve, who ducks his head sheepishly with a shrug.

It’s stupidly endearing. “Well, it was so much fun last time.”

Bucky snorts, “Yeah, tons of fun to break into my apartment and cook me breakfast.”

Steve’s grin is wide and bright and Bucky would swear his heart skips a beat with it, but even he knows it’s just stupid romantic hogwash. Romantic hogwash or not, it’s familiar and warm, and Bucky wants nothing more than to take out his phone and snap a hundred pictures. He knows he’s grinning just as brightly.

When the waiter comes, they’ve both devolved into flicking water at each other. They’re breathless when they order their sandwiches – a Reuben for Bucky and a BLT for Steve – but the waiter doesn’t comment on their slight dampness.

Steve leans back in his seat, hands on his thighs. His smile hasn’t faded, and Bucky honestly doesn’t think that he’s stopped. It’s nice, this little bit of normality. “What’s a little B&E between friends?”

He laughs, running his hand through his hair and mimicking Steve’s sprawl, “I’m glad you’re here. Things have been… rough.”

“That’s an understatement,” Steve says, his grin softening around the edges, “but we’re alive and both here, and that has to count for something.”

“More than something, pal.”

 

Steve doesn’t stay the night at the Proctor house, even though Becca insists that there’s plenty of room. Bucky understands; Kim is a handful on a good day, and she’s been a great distraction for Bucky, but Steve’s always been awkward around children. Instead, Steve checks in at a hotel a few blocks away with a promise to be back the next day.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.” Steve says, and for a moment Bucky feels like he’s going to be sick. No conversation that starts that way is any good, and his worry must show on his face because his friend is quick to reassure, “No, no! It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

Bucky’ll take that. When it comes to Steve, there’s not a lot he wouldn’t take.

When he goes to bed that night, it’s the first time in a months that he hasn’t had a nightmare.

 

Steve shows up just before noon the next day. Becca had left earlier for work (“I love you, Buck, but even my vacation days have their limits,” she had said, and Bucky had laughed and thrown a damp washcloth at her), and Kim was with her father at the park. They’d invited Bucky along, Kim looking at him imploringly and John trying hard not to laugh at his daughter’s pout, but the promise of more time with Steve won out and he sent them off without him.

He’s selfishly glad he didn’t go with them, though, when Steve shows up at the door with a pink box of maple bacon donuts and a sheepish smile.

“You said it wasn’t anything bad, but here you are, buttering me up.” Bucky laughs as he says it, but there’s a small knot of anxiety in his gut even as he steps aside to let Steve come in.

Steve gestures to his ears, and Bucky realizes he’s not wearing his hearing aids. When he speaks, his voice is louder than usual, “I forgot to change the batteries in my hearing aids. So, donuts.”

That explains it, at least. He makes sure to face Steve when he says, “You seriously stood in line at Voodoo Donuts to bring me ‘Sorry I’m deaf’ donuts?”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time.” The blond man shrugs, but the sheepish grin doesn’t fade and Bucky can’t help but return it.

Bucky leads Steve to the kitchen, where the donuts end up taking pride of place on the counter. He knows they’re not going to last long – Steve had proved the day before that he still eats a ton, and Bucky isn’t much better. He grabs out two glasses from the cabinet and pulls the fridge open to drag out the gallon of milk the Proctors always made sure to have, but he pauses before actually pouring it. Bucky can hear Steve pulling the box if donuts open, the sound of him tearing paper towels from the roll to use as plates, and for a moment wonders how the hell he’s going to get the milk in the glasses without making a complete mess.

The coffee pot is one thing, but the gallon is awkward and even with two hands he’d never been particularly successful at getting it all in the glass and not on the counter when it was mostly full. He puts it down next to the glasses. It dawns on him that since moving in with his sister, he’s never poured his own glass of anything but water and coffee, and water is easy, straight from the tap, and he’s slowly mastering coffee. He glances over his shoulder at Steve; it would be so easy to just open his mouth and ask for help, but his throat feels tight and he knows the words would never make it out of his mouth.

He turns back to the milk, sitting on the counter. Fuck it, Bucky decides, and unscrews the lid. It’s weird, not being able to brace the bottle with another hand, but he manages to get most of the milk in the glasses and not on the counter. He’s weirdly proud of himself for it.

It’s only a few moments, barely a minute, but even such a small accomplishment feels so much bigger.

Bucky passes a glass across the island to Steve, who takes it with a smile. Bucky wishes he could bottle that smile. “So what’s up?”

Steve is the master of the sheepish grin, all the way back to when they were brats getting in fights with bigger kids. They’d go home to one of their houses and the blond always managed to look pitiful and apologetic even when his face was mottled with bruises and his nose was bloody. Bucky had never managed to look even half as pathetic, and he’s amazed that Steve can still manage to look like that tiny, beat up kid at 32 and easily 200 pounds heavier and 2 feet taller. He’s got that grin on his face now, and Bucky knows that no matter what his friend has to say, he’s going to cave.

“I’m thinking of moving out here,” he starts, and Bucky perks right up. It’s not the worst idea he’s ever heard and probably ranks closer to one of the best. “And I’d really like it if you’d consider rooming with me. You don’t have to decide right now. It’ll probably be at least two months before I can get out of my lease, but I just -”

Bucky waves his hand and Steve shuts his mouth with a click. If Steve actually thought Bucky wouldn’t jump on the chance, he was dumber than he looked (not that he looks dumb, Bucky muses, because Steve’s never been dumb a day in his life – reckless, maybe, and a complete punk, but never dumb). “Stevie, I’m living with my sister. D’ya really think I plan to stay here forever?”

“Well, no –”

“Then shut it. I’m not gonna say no to sharing a place with my best pal,” Bucky leans forward as he speaks and punches his friend’s shoulder.

Steve’s radiant smile will probably get Bucky through every hard night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't abandoned this. I've just been insanely busy with school. I've started the next chapter already, and they should gradually be getting longer. I needed to get past this bit, and now I can actually get into what I've been aiming to write. Namely, domestic fluff.


	4. The Mighty Thor and a Metal Arm

Right before Steve had gone back to Brooklyn, he’d asked Bucky to think about where he wanted to live. Between the two of them, they could easily afford any place that struck their fancy, and Bucky had promised he would. The next morning, Bucky had received an email with a link to an apartment listing. A few hours later, one for a small house for sale. Bucky had looked at them both and clicked through to other listings. He thought about them both, thought about the houses he ended up looking at, and decided if he’s going to live in a house with Steve, he may as well get a dog, too. Bucky sent a picture of a dog from the Oregon Humane Society, and Steve texted him a big thumbs up.

Bucky had called the humane society to set up a time to come in the day after his next doctor’s appointment.

 

He can’t find his prosthetic. Becca thinks it’s hilarious, of course, watching him check in closets and under beds and trying not to curse because Kim is shadowing him around the house. Bucky hasn’t worn the stupid thing in days, hating the way the plastic rubs against the still-sensitive skin, but he has an appointment and he doesn’t want to deal with the disappointed look he’d get from his doctor if he shows up without it.

“Have you checked in the living room? I’m pretty sure I tripped over it a few days ago.” Becca’s barely containing her laughter, Bucky can hear it in her voice and he wants to flick her off. He doesn’t, but only because it’s hard to throw the middle finger at someone when there’s a small child watching and when his only arm is occupied with rummaging under his bed.

He rolls his eyes, instead, “How about instead of being cheeky, you help me find my arm, huh?”

This time she does laugh. “No way, watching you is way more entertaining.”

Sometimes Bucky dislikes his sister. This is one of those times. He pulls himself to his feet, carefully, because the rain has been messing with his bones in a way he doesn’t think he’ll ever be used to, and he does raise his middle finger at Becca as he makes his way into the living room.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to wear the prosthetic; he likes how people stare less when he has it, like how it helps provide at least some semblance of normality when he glances to his left and sees at least _something_ there. What he hates, though, is that it’s not really his, that he can’t fucking do something basic like unconsciously shifting what hand is holding a cup or a cigarette. He hates the way the straps pinch if he moves wrong, the way he’s self-conscious of it when he wears a short-sleeved shirt.

He’s hoping that his appointment will help with some of that; Dr. Hill had called a few days before to let him know that she had sent his file to a specialist and that he’d wanted to meet Bucky to see if he’d be a good candidate for a prosthetic that might at least give him some actual motion. It’s like something out of a scifi movie, but he’d researched the studies and trials that doctors are running and been amazed by what he’d found.

The arm is in the living room, he’s annoyed to find, but at least he knows where it is now.

By the time he manages to put the thing on, he only has about 20 minutes to get to his appointment.

 

Dr. Banner is not what Bucky was expecting, but to be fair he wasn’t expecting a whole lot. Just a quick consultation, maybe some bloodwork, and a “sorry, but you’re not a candidate.”

Instead, the office is welcoming, the walls painted a pale tan and not the stark white he’s come to expect from a doctor’s waiting room. The kid at the front desk can’t be more than 22, his smile wide and bright and his hair a floppy mess, but he’s nice and efficient. His name tag says Peter, Bucky notices, and he makes a point of saying his name when he thanks him. Peter’s smile only widens.

Dr. Banner himself isn’t an intimidating figure; he’s not short, but he’s not exactly tall either, and he holds himself like a much smaller man, right down to the soft way he speaks. Bucky likes him immediately.

The session starts off with some basic questions about his lifestyle – does he exercise (when he can), does he smoke (more often than he should), how’s his diet (better than it was in the Army) – and Bucky’s glad for the easy way Banner talks to him because it feels less like an interrogation and more like a conversation. By the time they get to the actual point of the visit, Bucky is comfortable and relaxed and willing to discuss his options.

“Maria told me she put you down as a potential candidate for a prosthesis we’ve been developing with Stark Industries,” Dr. Banner passes a small stack of papers to Bucky, “and from your medical records alone, I think you’d be a good candidate for the trials.”

Bucky’s lousy at hiding his surprise when he’s relaxed, and Banner picks up on it easily. “Seriously?”

Banner’s smile is reassuring, and Bucky knows that if it was anyone else he’d be frustrated by the gesture. From Dr. Banner, it actually helps alleviate the small knot of anxiety Bucky’s been feeling for days. “Seriously. You’re young, healthy, and active. While it’s definitely possible to live perfectly happily with a standard prosthesis, some people have difficulty adjusting after the kinds of injuries you sustained. We want to make that easier for you, in whatever ways we can.”

Bucky can’t deny that this sounds more than good, it sounds like a fucking miracle. He doesn’t have to fake his own smile when he says, “So what’s the plan, doc?”

 

The plan, Bucky quickly finds, is a ton of paperwork and waivers to sign, along with measurements and a crash course in the possible trials to be a part of. Some of them are seriously like something out of a science fiction movie – metal and plastic monstrosities that look less like arms and more like claw machine rejects – while others could pass as a real arm if you weren’t looking too closely.

Ultimately, he picked the trial that Dr. Banner himself was in charge of, funded and partially designed by Stark Industries (and that was a shock, finding out that the weapons manufacturer was putting some of his billions into prosthetics research). By the time he leaves, Bucky has a stack of requirements for surgery and an appointment for the initial nerve testing for barely a week later.

 

When he sees his psychiatrist later that day, she makes a point of telling him he’s doing well.

It helps.

 

Becca is sitting on the front steps when Bucky gets back that evening. When she sees him walking up the sidewalk, she scoots over and he drops down to sit beside her. Wordlessly, she offers him one of her cigarettes, the slow burning ones that they both huddle together to smoke because John hates them and Becca doesn’t want Kim breathing it in. He hesitates with his hand over the pack; Dr. Banner had recommended that he try and quit smoking to help limit some of the possible “worst case scenarios” the surgery might cause, something about a compromised immune system and blood clots. Bucky shakes his head.

“You okay? Not like you to turn down a forever stick.” She takes a drag of her own, exhaling slowly and Bucky watches the way the smoke dissipates in the breeze.

“Doc told me to quit. I’m approved for a shiny new arm.”

The sound Becca makes is not dignified at all, a squeaking yell, and she tosses her arms around him in a hug. The smoke blows in his face, but he doesn’t care and he returns the hug as best he can from the awkward position on the stairs. “That’s great! Is it gonna have lasers and shit?”

“That’s the joke you’re gonna lead with? Lasers?” Bucky snorts, shoving her off, “’Course not. But if it goes right, I’ll be able to move the fingers. _With my mind_.”

His sister whistles, low and long, “That’s… I don’t even know. That’s amazing.”

Bucky stares down at his hand and at the prosthesis, resting on his knees, and he knows he’s grinning but he doesn’t particularly care, “Yeah. Yeah, it sort of is.”

 

When he looks at listings again that night, he’s in a good mood, thinks that maybe he and Steve could buy a place together, a craftsman, maybe, with a big yard and a finished basement. Every house he looks at though is fucking expensive, and he knows property taxes are going to be a bitch – the website lets him estimate what the mortgage would be for each and what the taxes would be, and it’s daunting and terrifying. But he muddles through.

He finds three house that fall under $250,000. He’s got a good bit saved up, lucky that his medical expenses had been covered by the government, except for a couple thousand, and his participation in a medical trial means he get s new arm without having spend a dime. Between him and Steve, they could easily afford a $700 mortgage.

The first house is the longshot; it’s the most expensive, but it has a finished basement and a big yard, and two bathrooms and three bedrooms. It’s big, for a craftsman, and he’s sort of in love with the pictures – and it’s been on the market for months. Bucky hopes that when Steve’s ready to move, the place is still available, even if just to look at and pretend he could have it. The other two are nice, with old wood burning stoves in the living rooms and fucking breakfast nooks and he’s never felt so _domestic_ in his life as he browses through features and neighborhoods.

It’s sort of nice to think about something that isn’t life or death, and it’s stressful but he gets lost in the search and by the time he next glances at the clock, it’s after midnight and his phone is flashing with a message.

_[15:36] Cap’n Crunch: My lease is up November 1st. Letting me out early._

_[12:43] Bucky: Two months to find a house then but no rush right :P_

He knows he won’t get a reply for at least another few hours and that’s okay. He sends Steve the links to all three houses, and when he goes to bed a few minutes later, he’s looking forward to the morning and his appointment with the humane society.

 

John goes with him, which is a surprise. They’d not really spoken much since Bucky’s been living with the Proctors, both comfortable letting Becca fill the role of “human contact with the rest of the world,” but it was nice. John isn’t a loud person, but he’s not exactly quiet either. Bucky always gets the vibe that he’s just the right shade of unassumingly confident, someone that he honestly thinks is the perfect fit for his sometimes over-the-top sister. He likes John.

He also likes that John has a car and actually knows how to drive it, unlike Becca, who learned when she was a teenager but decided quickly she’d rather just take public transit than be stuck in a moving tin can.

They’ve merged onto I-5 before either of them speaks, and Bucky’s not sure why he expected the ride to be silent. “So what made you want a dog?”

Bucky shrugs, glancing over at his brother-in-law. John’s taller than him and looks a little ridiculous behind the wheel of the small car they’re in, with his broad shoulders and truly impressive beard. “I guess if I’m gonna get a house, might as well pull out all the stops.”

He doesn’t mention that he’d done hours of painstaking research on therapy dogs and PTSD, but John nods like he knows anyway. He probably does; Becca’s law practice gives her flexible work hours, but John’s a high school teacher, and what he lacks in free time he makes up for in observational skills.

The unasked question hangs in the air, though, and Bucky feels like he needs to at least address it, “I thought about a service dog.” John hums, and Bucky continues, “I mean, I don’t think I really need to go that far, but I think maybe having a dog around might help.”

“I think you’re probably right,” John’s voice is warm, “Sometimes dogs know what you need before you do.”

“Yeah.”

They’re quiet the rest of the drive, but Bucky doesn’t mind. When they pull up to the OHS building, he’s pushed the conversation out of his head by the time his feet hit the asphalt, because even if he doesn’t leave with a dog today, he’s excited about the idea of playing with the dogs.

John doesn’t come in with him, instead promising to return as soon as Bucky calls him, because he’d promised to bring lunch to Becca (who was apparently elbows deep in the most frustrating research she’d ever had to endure). Bucky likes John, but he’s glad that he gets to do this alone.

 

The volunteer that greets him is amazing. Her dry humor is refreshing, and while Bucky is completely gone on Steve, he can appreciate that she’s gorgeous, with long dark hair, plush lips, and a curvy figure not at all hidden by her lumpy sweater.

“Hey, you Bucky?” At his nod, she grabs his right elbow and holds on, “Cool. I’m Darcy. Now that we’re introduced, let’s look at some adorable fluff-balls.”

It’s hard to pretend to be surly and stoic when confronted not only with desperate to be loved dogs but also with an outrageously flirtatious volunteer. Darcy leads him through to the kennel and most of what she says doesn’t stick, not because he’s not listening but because he’s suddenly confronted with dozens of animals, all vying for their attention the moment they’re through the doors.

Darcy’s grip on his arm is the only thing that stops him from moving further into the kennel. She looks him up and down slowly, a quirk to her lips, and Bucky can’t help but think that she’s sizing him up for dinner. She’s a little terrifying. “So, first up. These are the yappy dogs, but you don’t look like a yappy dog kind of guy. I’m seeing a big, manly dog in your future.”

“I, uh,” he starts, but she waves him off.

“Say no more! Let’s go to the big puppy room.”

And off they go. He can’t deny that he really wasn’t interested in a small dog; he’s not as bad off as some people, but he knows he’d constantly be on guard with a small dog, always worried that he’d have a bad day and accidentally hurt the poor thing. Either Darcy is weirdly perceptive, or she’s just the right shade of stubborn.

The big dog room seems to have more dogs in it than the small dog room. Most of them were laying down when they came in, but as they move forward, some of them make their ways to the front of their enclosures, their tails wagging happily and Bucky fucking melts. There’s a German Shepherd wagging her tail so hard her entire body moves with it, and Bucky lets out a little laugh.

“She’s excited,” he says, and Darcy grins.

“She’s an attention whore. Been here a few weeks, I think. Her last person couldn’t afford to keep her anymore.” She lets go of his arm and Bucky takes the opportunity to put his hand to the cage door for the dog to sniff. “Her name’s Brunhilda. Not super creative, but she’s a freaking sweetheart.”

Brunhilda licks his hand and wags harder. Bucky can’t keep the grin off his face, even when Darcy drags him to the next cage, where a young retriever with short, stubby legs looks up at him. Darcy tells him he’s a corgi mix, and that he’s like “retriever lite.” Bucky likes him, likes the way his tongue lolls from his mouth and his brown eyes are full of warmth. He’s considering him pretty seriously, but Darcy drags him from cage to cage until Bucky finally sees him.

The dog is huge. He’s easily up to Bucky’s waist, a big white fluff ball with a black nose and soft black eyes, and Bucky knows immediately that this is his dog. If the way the dog presses against the cage door when he gets close, he thinks maybe the dog feels the same way.

Darcy makes a surprised noise, “How about that. This guy’s Thor. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do that before. Do you have, like, beef jerky in your pocket or something.”

Bucky laughs, putting his hand out again and watching as Thor nudges him as best he can from his side of the door. “Nah, no jerky. He’s gorgeous though. How long’s he been here?”

“He’s trying for longest visit. He’s been here for like 6 months. Seriously, how are you getting him to be all… dog like? He normally just lays around when people come in.” Darcy squints at him as she moves to unlock the cage so Bucky can get closer to Thor. Immediately, Thor noses the door open and leans against Bucky’s side. He’s warm, and soft, and Bucky can’t help but press his fingers into the dog’s thick white coat. Thor makes a happy huff. “Dude, I’m gonna have to require you to adopt this dog.”

“You might not have to try all that hard,” Bucky concedes, and when he looks down, Thor is already looking back up and if there was any doubt that this is his dog, it’s gone.

 

It doesn’t take nearly as long as he thought it would to get all the paperwork signed and the adoption fee paid. Thor refuses to go back into the kennel and Darcy watches in amazement as he stays, obediently, at Bucky’s side. He finds out that Thor came to them from one of the service dog trainers, his stubbornness making him difficult to train and his size making him expensive for most people to deal with. Bucky wonders about the coincidence, if that’s what it is, but doesn’t question it.

He takes a picture, Thor practically grinning up at the camera, and sends it to Steve.

When John comes to get him, he laughs. Thor refuses the leash Darcy offered him, but doesn’t hesitate to hop into the backseat when Bucky opens the door. They ride back to the house with Thor’s wet nose pressed to Bucky’s cheek.

 

Kim is absolutely delighted by Thor, because she’s a little kid and he’s a dog big enough that she can climb on his back and demand that he mush. Thor, Bucky’s relieved to see, is perfectly willing to go along with it, only huffing a little as he takes a few steps towards the couch, where Kim vaults to. John’s laughing from where he stands in the doorway, and Bucky sinks down in one of the armchairs, warm and happy. It’s so fucking nice to watch his niece try and get Thor to play with her, the way the dog looks so begrudging but his tail is wagging, thumping on the carpet and the table.

Becca, when she gets home, is less impressed. “He’s like a _horse_.”

“A valiant steed.” John shouts from the kitchen, and Bucky snorts.

 

The next few weeks are insane. He only manages to survive house hunting, preliminary surgeries, and dealing with Tony Stark, of all people, because of Thor and his increasingly frequent text messages with Steve. He’s narrowed down the houses and scheduled appointments with the realtor as soon as Steve is in town again, and it’s like finally things are moving again, like Bucky is out of a strange limbo he hadn’t even realized he’d been stuck in.

The next time he meets with Dr. Banner, Tony Stark is there, too, talking too fast and too long about circuits and feedback, and the only thing that Bucky gets out of the conversation is that if they’re very lucky, he won’t have phantom limb pain. It’s also the first surgery of two, and he spends most of the next 3 days completely drugged out of his mind.

Two weeks later, he goes through it again. This time, though, when he leaves the hospital recovery room a few days later, he has two arms. Tony Stark himself fits him with a piece of technology that he insists is just a “basic prosthesis” but that Bucky quickly dubs the first stage of his cyborg transformation. It’s a light-weight metal, polished and reflective, and after a month of tinkering, diagnostics, and therapy, he’s able to bend the elbow, rotate the wrist, and more or less wiggle his fingers.

The first time Becca sees it, Tony has just finished running a diagnostic test on the arm and Bucky, grinning, makes spirit fingers are her. His sister doesn’t find it as funny as Tony does, but Bucky’s sure she’s just trying to seem badass in front of the weapons manufacturer. Bucky knows her tells, and her eyes are too bright to not be at least a little entertained.

Tony slaps him on the shoulder before he leaves, making him jump, just a bit, and Becca drops heavily into the seat he’d vacated. She watches him with warmth in her deep brown eyes and the affection only a little sister can have for the big brother who taught her how to throw a punch when the boys wouldn’t leave her alone in school.

 

On Halloween, Bucky doesn’t cover the arm. He sits on the front porch in a leather jacket missing the left sleeve and leather pants, holding a bowl of candy and whenever trick-or-treaters rush towards him in their costumes (his favorite was the kid wearing what looked like 5 different costumes at once), he makes sure to put the candy in their bags with the metal hand.

He takes their enthusiasm and excitement with him through the night, and when he goes to sleep that night with Thor pressed against him, he knows tomorrow will be perfect.

Tomorrow, Steve will be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this chapter for a few days so I'd have something to post a month from now when I inevitably struggle through finals, but decided to post it now instead. So enjoy two new chapters in a week. It probably won't happen again until the end of December. (Sorry for the filler chapter.) As always, please point out any glaring mistakes and constructive criticism is ALWAYS welcome. (Seriously, I can't improve if I don't know what I'm doing badly.)


	5. His Name is Agent and This Week on House Hunters

This time, Bucky meets Steve at the airport. He’d taken the train, impatient and not wanting to wait longer than he needed to for a cab, because it had been long enough since he’d seen Steve.

Of course, Steve’s flight is delayed – and really, a 2 hour delay was excessive. There are only so many cups of shitty coffee he can down before he’s jittery and heading firmly towards frustrated. Bucky wishes he had brought Thor along, wants to press the fingers of his flesh hand into Thor’s fur, wants to ground himself again in the reassuring presence of the big dog at his side. There are too many people, chatting travelers and screaming children, and he’s starting to find the lines between now and bombs in marketplaces somewhere on the other side of the ocean blurring. People are shoving by him, on their ways to security checkpoints (and it was right no matter where he was; there was always a security checkpoint) and bathrooms and wherever it is that people rushing from the airport go.

He takes a deep breath, fights down the lump in his throat and the tension building in his shoulders, spreading down into his hand and fist and he takes another breath. In, out, over and over again until Bucky can breathe again, slowly and steadily. He wonders if Steve has the same problem, and hates himself a little when he hopes he does, that it’s not just him. He huffs out a soft laugh, unheard in the din of the waiting area. His therapist would probably remind him how it’s never just him, that PTSD is nothing to be ashamed of. Abstractly, Bucky knew she would be right. But sometimes the walls feel like they’re closing in and going to the park, listening to screaming kids, makes him start to lose it around the edges, makes him go places he doesn’t want to ever go again.

Like airport terminals, apparently. The arrival screen updated while Bucky had been in his own head, and it’s only a few more minutes before Steve’s flight finally gets in. He can make it a few more minutes, he figures.

But they’re taking a fucking cab back.

Bucky spots Steve immediately, raises his stupidly shiny metal arm and waves it, and when Steve finally spots him, it’s like the crowds part and there’s an easy line between them. Which Bucky knows is stupid, he does, but sometimes it’s the little things that make it all just that much easier.

 

Steve ends up crashing on his bedroom floor at Becca’s. It’s only until they either find a place or Steve finds a reasonably priced hotel.

“I like this place,” Steve says one evening as they huddle around his laptop looking at listings. Becca banned them from the dining room table for the night and neither Bucky nor Steve could argue with the frazzled look she gave them as Kim and her day care friends finger painted. They end up sprawled out on Bucky’s bed, shoulder to shoulder, with Steve precariously balancing the computer on their legs.

The place Steve points out is nice, Bucky thinks, knocking Steve’s hand away to click through to the full listing. The pictures are grainy, but it’s not super tiny like some of the others they’ve looked at and has an actual basement. “Yeah, that’s not bad. Put it on the list for the agent.”

“The agent” is a middle aged man who looks like he could _actually_ be an _agent_ for some paramilitary spy organization. Phil Coulson was one of three realtors that Bucky had spoken with in the weeks before Steve parked his ass at Becca’s, and of the three he was the least terrifying. Jim Howlett was a nightmare and Bucky wasn’t exactly sure why the man had decided that “real estate agent” was something he wanted to do with his life. “Lumberjack” or “cagefighter” came to mind a lot faster than “selling people houses.”

Doreen Green was nice enough, but when he’d met her for coffee to talk about what he and Steve were looking for, they’d been surrounded by squirrels. While they spoke, the squirrels slowly came to circle the table and Thor, who had been laying quietly by his side, had let out a loud growl when one of the furry rodents had actually climbed onto his back. Bucky made his excuses quickly, thanked Doreen for her time, and got the fuck out of there.

Phil, by comparison, was a breath of fresh air, even with his deadpan expression. Bucky had liked him immediately when they’d first spoken on the phone, and even more when he didn’t even blink when he saw Bucky’s prosthetic arm.

Steve bookmarks the listing. It’s the fifth one that they can both agree on, and Bucky’d be lying if he said he wasn’t excited to actually go and look at the houses in person.

From his spot on the floor, Thor snuffles in his sleep. They end up browsing the listings for another hour, but nothing else really stands out to either of them, and it’s Bucky who finally calls in quits for the day and shuts the laptop down.

“So, now what?” Steve asks, dragging himself from the bed and stretching his arms above his head. Bucky looks away from him, focusing on Thor instead to try and keep his eyes from falling to the exposed skin of Steve’s abdomen.

He shrugs, “Wanna go for a walk?” Thor’s head pops up at the word “walk” and Bucky can’t help but snort at the giant dog. “Yeah, buddy, you can come, too.”

Steve laughs, “There’s that decision made. Food carts? I’m starving.”

 

They end up getting pizza from a hole in the wall place that almost feels like being back in Brooklyn. It’s cramped, but they let Bucky bring Thor in and the slices are huge. The music is good, playing from a beat up old radio behind the counter, loud enough but not so loud to make it hard for Steve to hear.

Grease drips from the slice when Bucky folds it, drops of orange staining the paper plate as he tries not to make a mess of himself and Steve laughs when he’s only slightly successful.

Steve’s attempts aren’t much better.

“We’re meeting up with Mr. Coulson tomorrow, right?” Steve asks around a mouthful of cheesy goodness, licking up a glop of cheese and sauce that landed on his hand.

Bucky nods, swallowing his own bite of pizza before saying, “Yeah, at 2. He wants to take us to a few of the places we sent him, let us explore or something. See if Thor approves.”

The mammoth dog looks up at his name, probably hoping for some pizza, and Steve leans down to scratch him behind his ears. Bucky grins at the stupid, dopey looks on both of their faces.

“His vote _is_ the most important,” Steve concedes, and Thor wuffs happily.

 

Coulson obviously thinks Steve is a national treasure and Bucky can’t exactly argue with that. Steve is a treasure, a bona fide miracle of a man that deserves to seen for the gift that he is. As far as Bucky is concerned, the sun rises and sets on Steve Rogers.

Phil’s starry-eyed looks are starting to get old, though.

They’re looking at the third house of the day, a decently sized place not far from Lloyd Center in NE. The old craftsman house has an unassuming pale blue siding, and when he and Steve had first seen it online, both had immediately thought of the houses they would see on childhood trips with Bucky's parents to New Jersey to visit extended family. Looking at it now, and at the way Thor is happily thumping his tail on the floor, Bucky sort of thinks this might be the one. He figures Steve is thinking the same thing, but the blond man is milking the house-hunting thing for all it’s worth.

Phil mostly lets them guide themselves through the house, but when one of them has a question he doesn’t hesitate to jump into realtor mode.

And the place is gorgeous – not perfect by a long shot, but it’s nothing they can’t handle. There are a few places that need fresh paint and one of the bedrooms needs a light fixture, but the kitchen is big and open with a small window behind the sink overlooking the small stone patio and long, narrow side yard overgrown with roses. There’s a tile fireplace in the living room and up in the master bedroom, and the three bedrooms are all spacious with dark hardwood floors.

Hell, there’s even a second stone patio in the backyard, a firepit built into the ground, and a small section of garden almost completely hidden behind a small metal gate and an overgrowth of hyacinth bushes.

They’ve made their way back to the kitchen and Phil puts his paperwork on the house down on the deep blue countertops. “Do either of you have any questions about the property before we continue?”

“Is there a basement?” Steve asks, because he’s always wanted to be in an episode of House Hunters and Bucky figures this is the next best thing for him.

Phil nods, “There is. Shall we?” He gestures towards a door just off the kitchen.

The basement is huge and as far as Bucky can tell, in the process of being finished. There are some small windows, mostly covered by the bushes outside, but a good deal of light still filters in. Coulson flips on the light.

Steve looks like it’s fucking Christmas. The walls are primer gray, obviously not painted yet, but the floor is tiled and there’s an open door off to the left of the stairs with a laundry room. Bucky’ll sign the fucking papers right now if the washer and dryer come with the place, because they’re huge, practically industrial, and it’d be spectacular to not have to drag comforters to the dry cleaner ever again.

“The sellers are including all appliances with the house,” Coulson says, and Bucky does an internal victory dance, “They aren’t exactly jumping at moving them.”

Steve grabs at Bucky’s shoulder, grabbing hard metal, and smiles at Phil, “We’re just gonna go over here for a minute.”

They don’t give him a chance to respond before they’re on the other side of the basement, and Steve is grinning like a goddamn loon. Hell, Bucky’s pretty sure he is, too.

“Buck.”

“Right?”

“This is it. This is our house.” Steve bounces a little, like a little kid at his first baseball game, and if Bucky thinks he’s the most adorable man on Earth, he doesn’t say anything.

He does, however, nod and match Steve’s wide grin, “Did you see the washer and dryer?”

“Is this what being an actual adult feels like?” Steve says with a laugh, and Bucky punches him lightly on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s tell Phil we’re gonna make an offer.”

 

Making the offer turns into a whole lot of “hurry up and wait” and “please don’t let anyone else offer more.” It’s an anxious two weeks of Bucky constantly checking his phone, Steve obsessively looking through other listings (“It’s just in case things fall through. I really don’t want to put your sister out.”), and Becca getting frustrated because Bucky is _still_ somehow managing to leave his arm in the most ridiculous places. (Bucky mostly does it because he likes hearing her exasperated mumbling when she finds it, and not because he’s actually forgotten where he’s put it.)

Becca stomps into the kitchen holding Bucky’s left arm, scowl firmly on her face as she shoves it at a surprised Steve. Bucky figures it’s because he’s the first one she sees and not out of any consideration for Bucky one-handedly making breakfast. It’s barely 7, early enough that Kim is still in bed and

“James Buchanan Barnes, I swear to fucking god, if I find your arm laying around my house _one more time_ I’m going to beat you to death with it.”

Bucky turns back to the eggs to hide his grin, but can’t keep the mirth from his voice when he asks, “Where’d I leave it this time?”

He can practically feel the glare on the back of his neck, “Don’t think I don’t know that you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Now why would I do that?” He hears Steve snort and grins wider. He flips the eggs in the pan.

“Why was it in the office _flipping the bird_?”

It’s Steve that answers, “It’s an art installation. I call it ‘Flightless Bird.’”

Bucky loses it when Becca groans, choking out a laugh that sounds more like a retch and dropping the spatula in the oiled pan. When he turns, Becca’s eye roll only makes him laugh harder.

Steve looks smugly pleased with himself as Becca goes to the coffee maker and pours herself a cup. “It’s too early for you losers.”

He opening his mouth to retort – and Bucky’s not sure exactly what he’s going to say, but he’s sure it’ll be hilarious – when his phone starts ringing. It’s closer to Steve, and it’s a small blessing that the blond remembered his hearing aids when he snatches it up. From where he’s standing, Bucky can clearly see that it’s Coulson calling.

At 7 AM on a Saturday morning.

Bucky doesn’t hear the conversation through the blood rushing through his skull and how distracted the suddenly clamminess of his palm makes him. He’s terrified, if he’s completely honest, because this is a _Big Deal_ , but Becca’s grinning next to him and Steve is putting the phone down and his heart rate is through the fucking roof. It takes Steve coming around the island and standing in front of him, big doofy grin on his face, before Bucky starts to calm down because that’s not a “no dice” smile, that’s a “good news” smile.

“They accepted the offer.”

Bucky takes a deep, slow breath and turns around to flick off the stove – the eggs were ruined anyway. It takes a second for him to get his nerves back under control, and when he turns back to Steve and Becca, he’s smiling – wide and bright and so fucking happy because _they got the fucking house_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay! I rewrote this chapter more times than I'm willing to admit; every version read like an episode of House Hunters. This still sort of does, but now that the whole lead up to them actually getting the house is out of the way, I can focus on the domestic fluff. It's happening, guys. Hopefully it won't be so long between updates this time around.  
> EDIT: I made a few small changes in this chapter, specifically about the house. I've moved them to NE Portland from SE, and I've changed the house a little to match an actual house. If you're curious, [this right here](https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1804-NE-Halsey-St-Portland-OR-97232/53881127_zpid/?fullpage=true) is the house I'm thinking of, with some small modifications.


	6. IKEA Adventures and Stolen Coffee

Becca absolutely does cry when Bucky and Steve get the hell out of her house. She’ll deny it later, but Bucky noticed the redness in her eyes and the stuffed-up way she sounded when she helped them pack the last of Bucky’s stuff into the bed of the pick-up truck he and Steve had rented for the move.

He’s glad there wasn’t a lot to pack between the two of them. Most of Steve’s stuff is still in storage in New York, and Bucky never really _bought_ anything but clothes and the occasional book or movie. He knows there’s a trip to IKEA in their immediate future, and he’s sort of excited about it, excited to wander the store and eat weird meatballs and watch Steve – big, awkward Steve – sit on tiny brightly colored chairs.

The house, when they unload the truck, still looks sparse and barren without the normal comforts of home. It’s not a bad thing – it feels like potential, like something that Bucky and Steve can make their own but it’s still jarring. Bucky had spent months with his sister’s family, months hearing Kim’s heavy footfalls as she ran from room to room early in the morning. The silence and emptiness of the house, interspersed with a handful of boxes, is strange.

But it’s also wonderful, Bucky discovers, when Steve grins at him, slips off his sneakers, and slides across the hardwood floor of the living room. Thor rushes after him, skidding and clacking as Steve does two more slides and Bucky can’t help but laugh at the ridiculous sight of man and dog.

It doesn’t take long for him to join in, kicking his own shoes in the general direction of the front door and running a few steps to get some good momentum going.

They spend more time then they probably should just sliding around, but Bucky can’t bring himself to care because it’s fun and silly and wonderful, something that they can do _in their own home_ and Bucky doesn’t think he’ll be used to that anytime soon.

Because it’s the first time in years that Bucky has been home, and, even in an empty house, that’s exactly where he is, and he and Steve have only been there for less than an hour and it’s already filled with laughter and it’s everything he’s ever wanted. It’s absolutely fucking perfect.

 

The next morning, they go to IKEA.

“Steve.”

Steve, who either doesn’t hear him or is actively ignoring him, continues to sort through the violently colorful paper lanterns.

Bucky pokes him in the side with a metal finger, “Steve.”

“What?” There’s an exaggerated pout on his face, and Bucky fucking knew his friend was ignoring him.

“I’m gonna have a seizure just looking at that thing.” The thing in question is a _lime green metal monstrosity_ posing as a table lamp, no doubt aiming for “unique” but missing it in favor of “ugly as shit”

Steve grins at him, holding up the lamp abomination, “This belongs in our living room.”

“That belongs in a dumpster.” Bucky replies, deadpan, but he’s fighting back his own grin. The thing is truly hideous and malproportioned and he knows Steve isn’t serious about wanting it. Probably.

“You say that now, but just wait. Two months from now, you’ll wish we’d have bought it. ‘Steve,’ you’ll say, ‘Steve, that ugly lamp was exactly what this room needed.’” Bucky has no idea how Steve keeps a straight face through this, because he can’t stop the sharp burst of laughter that Steve’s truly bad impression of him inspires.

“Oh my god, that’s terrible. You’re fired.” Bucky’s still laughing as Steve smugly puts the lamp down and pushes their mostly empty cart forward a few feet, grin stretching his lips. Bucky had missed this, all the time they’d been apart both during their time in the Army and when Steve had married Peggy. It’s nice, so fucking nice, to be able to wander around a store together and shoot the shit, and if it took serious injury to get them both here, mostly whole and definitely alive, then every single fucking moment of it was worth it.

Steve grabs a far less offensive lamp, a simple white number that doesn’t make Bucky’s eyes bleed. When Bucky nods his approval of it, Steve places it in the cart.

As they wander IKEA, grabbing pots and pans and cheap silverware and the occasional ugly throw pillow, Bucky can’t help but just watch his friend. The way he picks things up and turns them in his hands, long, slender fingers graceful in every movement has him smiling, soft and open, and it’s probably stupidly obvious that he’s smitten with the man.

If Steve had actually wanted the stupid lamp, Bucky knows he wouldn’t have said a word against it.

By the time they finally get to where the furniture is, Bucky’s starting to wonder if getting furniture at IKEA is actually a good idea. It’s all edges and bright colors, impersonal in its design and lacking most of what makes him think “comfortable.” They plop on a dozen couches, cracking jokes, but none of the options really scream for their attention. There are a few that at least aren’t sharp angles, but none of them are even remotely what Bucky (and he suspects Steve as well) has in mind.

“What about this one?” Bucky asks, pointing to a plush green couch that actually looks like a couch and not a guest torture device.

The looks Steve gives him is answer enough, lips slightly downturned and eyes clearly projecting “are you fucking serious.” “How about we don’t, and say we didn’t?”

Bucky snorts, “Yeah, I can live with that. Wanna try an actual furniture store?”

Bucky’s barely finished the sentence before Steve is heading towards the checkout.

 

They shove all the IKEA purchases in the rental truck, and he’s a little disappointed that the store failed to live up to his expectations and the hype. If Steve’s thinking the same, he doesn’t say anything as he gets into the driver’s seat. He watches Steve check his hearing aids before he starts the engine, and as he drives, they bicker over who gets to control the radio. Bucky’s smug when he wins, but it’s short lived – the furniture store they go to isn’t far.

They stop in the parking lot of the respectable looking furniture store, passing a take-away container of truly disgusting meatballs back and forth. It’s not that they’re gross, but after eating a few of them Bucky decides he never wants them ever again.

Still, the trip to IKEA wasn’t a total waste – they’d bought inexpensive kitchen junk and some pretty decent looking dishes and cups. Bucky hopes the furniture store is more promising – all they really need is a couch and a kitchen table, maybe some chairs. Everything else they can get as they get settled into the new house.

 

It’s almost 8 when they finally get home and start to unload all the shit they’d bought. By 11, they’ve mostly assembled the furniture from their second stop, and Bucky’s glad to finally plant his ass on their new sofa. Thor’s equally pleased, if the way he jumps up and sprawls across him is any indication.

Steve’s in the kitchen, pretending to organize the pots and pans, but Bucky’s pretty sure that he’s actually just shoving things in the cabinets and hoping for the best. It’s nice, he decides as he rubs Thor’s belly, and it’s peaceful despite the muted clanging from the other room.

And it really hits him, then, sitting there on that comfy couch with a giant dog while his best friend putters around nearby, that this is all real. He’s a fucking home owner, with a dog and a real, adult couch, not a futon, and it’s the most grown-up he’s ever felt. He has a _home_ , not barracks on an Army base or a camp in the middle of nowhere, not his sister’s guest room.

It’s honestly a little overwhelming. Thor huffs up at him, lifting his big head and shuffling over to knock his muzzle against Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky grins, “Hey, buddy. Not paying enough attention to you, huh?”

The dog snuffles, and Bucky wraps his arms around his neck (and that’s still surreal, the way the prosthetic responds so readily, the way he can almost pretend it’s real and not metal and plastic and electrodes).

Bucky’s still hugging Thor when Steve comes into the living room and plops down next to him, and it’s only a few moments before Thor wiggles away and does his absolute best to lay on _both_ of them at the same time.

He’s mostly successful, but it makes both men laugh.

“I think Thor’s enjoying this.” Steve says, scratching behind Thor’s ears while Bucky thumps his flesh hand softly against his lower back.

“Either that or he’s a great actor.” Eventually, Thor gets bored of all the attention, but not enough to wander too far away, jumping off the couch only to plant himself firmly on Bucky’s feet.

Steve takes this as the perfect opportunity to shove a throw pillow (lime green, and Bucky knows Steve bought it because of that ugly lamp from IKEA) onto Bucky’s lap and proceeds to use him as a headrest. “So how does it feel to own half of a mortgage debt?”

Bucky snorts, flicking the top of Steve’s head where it’s mostly on his lap, “If I start obsessing over crown-molding or making sure curtains match, just know I blame you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. What should I blame you for?”

“Eh, probably the burning desire to paint every room.” Bucky grins down at Steve as he snorts. It’s such a comfortable moment, quiet and if they were anyone else, Bucky would probably call it intimate. A lot of their friendship has skirted that line and if he’s completely honest with himself, definitely crossed it. He knows it’s not all that common for friends to buy a house together. But it’s nice, regardless of how others might see it.

He’s secure enough in himself to not let his feelings for Steve overwhelm him. They’re nothing new, just a soft simmer that never really fades or lessens. It just _is_. And he knows that no matter how Steve feels, nothing between them will ever really change.

That’s probably the biggest comfort, if Bucky’s completely honest with himself. There aren’t a lot of things that he can really say never change; his entire life has been constant change. His parents’ divorce, his sister getting married to a Portland hipster fresh out of law school, his time in the army, the loss of his arm. The only thing that’s stayed constant in his life has been Steve, even with miles between them and sporadic communication over the last 10 years.

Steve shifts, and Bucky pokes him in the forehead. The sleepy smile that spreads across Steve’s face is the most perfect thing Bucky has seen in ages. His voice is equally as subdued when he says, “I’m glad we did this, you know.”

Bucky could probably stop himself from running his right hand through Steve’s hair, but honestly, he doesn’t want to. The blond strands are soft against his fingers and Steve’s satisfied hum settles deep in Bucky’s bones. “Yeah, me too.”

 

The next morning, Bucky is up before the sun and Thor only snuffles from his spot at the foot of his bed as he attaches the arm to his stump. It takes a minute to calibrate, to sync up with his nerves, and when it beeps he pulls an old hoodie on. The air is chilled this early in the day, cold enough to remind him that it’s November and that he’s fucking _homeowner_ now. It takes him a few minutes to realize that Kim isn’t going to come running in demanding he turn on cartoons for her, to realize that Becca won’t be sitting at the kitchen table with a pot of coffee and WestLaw, that John won’t come down the stairs, bleary-eyed and with a reusable grocery bag full of graded papers.

It’s weird, he decides, as he heads down into the kitchen and makes coffee, watching the liquid slowly drip into the carafe. Good weird, but still – weird. He figures he has about an hour before Steve decides to drag his ass out of bed and the day actually starts.

For the moment, though, Bucky side eyes his laptop. It’s been a while since he did the whole “gainful employment” thing, and the idea of applying for – or even _getting_ – a job is daunting. It’s not like he can easily put the shit he did in the military on an application, and even the stuff he can is more suited for private security than anything else.

The thing is though, Bucky realizes as he looks around the pre-dawn lighted room and takes in the first thing he can call his in a long time, he doesn’t want to put himself in danger anymore. He doesn’t want to wake up every morning and wonder if that’s the day there’s a bullet with his name on it.

He’s still thinking about it when the coffee maker beeps, when he pours himself a cup, when he sits down at the counter and opens his laptop. He pulls up craigslist first.

 

When Steve does come downstairs, Bucky has a solid 10 applications in for the most mundane jobs he could find – office drone, receptionist, barista.

“There’s something creepy about coming into the kitchen to all the lights off and you intently staring at a glowing computer screen.” Steve says in lieu of a good-morning, flicking the light on and heading straight for the coffee pot. He’s in threadbare sweats and a truly hideous teal t-shirt, and Bucky swallows a snort.

“Is now a good time to make a ‘no porn in the kitchen’ rule?” He asks, opening another job listing in a new tab and skimming through the requirements. He glances up at Steve in time to see him shrug.

“Now’s as good a time as any. Good to get that outta the way early.” Steve yawns as he sits on the stool next to Bucky, putting his coffee down and failing at subtly staring at the computer screen, “Job hunting?”

Bucky hums his acknowledgement, taking a sip of his lukewarm coffee and scowling at the taste. He grabs Steve’s. “I’ve got a dog and a house, might as well try that ‘gainfully employed’ thing while I’m doing this whole adulting thing.”

“That’s not a bad idea. See anything exciting?”

“I was thinking of being a true stereotypical Portland hipster and working in a coffee shop. Whaddaya think, do I got what it takes to be a barista?” Bucky grins as he speaks, lifting his prosthetic arm and mock-flexing. Steve laughs, shoving at Bucky’s right shoulder.

“Only if it means I get good coffee for free.” He steals his coffee mug back, inhaling the warm steam before taking a sip.

 

They fall into silence as Bucky keeps browsing, occasionally glancing at each other and trying (and failing) to hold back smiles. It’s so nice, just sitting together in the early morning hours and it doesn’t take long for the silence to dissolve into joking, into making plans for the day.

Steve decides to head downtown to see if he can find some new clothes that haven’t seen a literal war zone, and Bucky has a list of coffee shops and restaurants to bring his (very, very short) resume to.

Bucky is locking the front door behind him, Thor happily leaning against his legs, and out of the corner of his eyes he can see Steve at the bottom of the stairs watching them with a look on his face that Bucky can’t exactly interpret. He turns and heads down the stairs.

“You ready?” Steve asks as Bucky reaches the bottom step, and Bucky can’t help the wide smile, and really doesn’t want to stop it.

Yeah, Bucky’s ready. He's so absolutely ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry about the 9 month delay on this! Things haven't been great for me, so writing has sort of taken a back-burner to everything else. This hasn't been abandoned, and I'll try to have the next chapter up sooner rather than later. Thanks for sticking with me!
> 
> If you want to [follow me on tumblr](http://getluckywithbucky.tumblr.com/), I sometimes will post progress on this and other works, and I also post a lot of Captain America related stuff.


	7. Umbrella Man and Dog Cuddles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry that this took me a year and half. It's not even a long chapter and for that I'm so sorry. It's been an insane year. Last summer, I did the Stucky Big Bang so all my writing energy went into that. I had about half the chapter done and planned to be posted by Thanksgiving last year, but my father unexpected passed away. It's honestly been one thing after another since then, and I haven't had time to write.
> 
> I'm finally done with school, things have started to steady out, and to show that I'm still writing this story, I figured I'd post a short chapter so you all know that I haven't abandoned this. This fic is my happy place, and it's time I get back to it. (In between working on this year's SBBB, at least.)

They part ways downtown, Steve off to Pioneer Place to trudge through racks of clothing, and Bucky to start on his list of potential employers. Thor trots happily by his side, occasionally stopping to sniff at lampposts and doorways, excited by the new smells and busy street.

The first stop on his list is a coffee shop right off the MAX, a nice little place with big windows and lots of seating. Bucky likes the look of the place, the way the counter was an island in the middle of the room and how students from the local university and professionals occupied almost every table. He pushes the door open, letting Thor lead him in, and hops in line. It’s not extremely busy; the morning rush is over and the lunch rush hasn’t quite kicked in yet, but there are still four people in line ahead of him. He takes advantage of the short wait to pull out a copy of his resume, briefly looking over it for the hundredth time and finding all the places where it’s lacking.

This place is a long shot and he knows it. The easy movements of the baristas, the shiny chrome of the espresso machine, all of it speaks to needing a lot more experience than he actually has. Bucky’s aware they probably won’t even call him for an interview, but he figures it can’t hurt to at least try. There are eight more places on the list, and he’s sure one will call him back.

By the time he gets to the register, he’s worked out something of a script. The barista greets him with a wide smile and a soft coo as her eyes drift down to Thor.

“Oh, wow. Your dog is gorgeous!” She looks like she wants to jump the counter and cuddle him, and Bucky can’t really blame her. Thor is the definition of a Good Dog, tongue lolling out as he doggy grins and leans against Bucky’s leg.

“Thanks. His name’s Thor.”

The barista laughs, “Definitely a fitting name. He looks like he could be a Norse god!”

There’s no one in line behind him, luckily, and Bucky finds himself chatting with her for a few minutes. Janet’s a student at PSU studying theatre arts and moonlighting as a barista to afford her clothing design hobby, and she chats easily as she sets to making his Americano. She’s nice, flirty in a way that’s casual and lacking any intent beyond making the customer feel good. By the time she’s done and handing his drink to him over the bar, Bucky feels a lot better about handing her his resume.

“So, uh, who would I talk to about working here?” Bucky asks, trying for casual and probably missing the mark by about 30 paces. Janet grins.

“I thought that was a resume in your hand!” She reaches for it, making a grabby motion and Bucky dutifully hands it over. “The manager comes in around 2, but I can hold onto this until then and I’ll pass it on to her. You stopped in at a great time, too, since we’re pretty short staffed at the moment.” At this, she leans forward almost conspiratorially and Bucky can’t help but mimic her, leaning in himself, “We just had a couple of people put in their two weeks, mostly for school stuff, and another left for California last week.”

Bucky can’t help but smile, “Well, my friend I and just bought a house so I can at least guarantee that I won’t be going to California.”

By the time he walks out the door with a wave to Janet, he feels a lot better about his mediocre résumé. If nothing else, he figures, he’s found a coffee shop he can actually feel okay at.

 

His next few stops aren’t all that eventful, mostly just him passing off his resume to disinterested hipsters or, on the opposite end, overly interested hipsters. Work is a good stop gap; the longer he’s out passing out résumés, the more he considers enrolling for classes. While Steve had elected to complete his degree during his time in the military, Bucky had never seen the point. If he’s honest with himself, he had spent a lot of his time in the service thinking he’d go career. The IED had blown apart more than just his arm; it had destroyed those half-formed thoughts before they could really take hold.

The longer he’s out, the more Bucky realizes he’s actually sort of fine with that. The thing about taking orders, he realized, is that sometimes it becomes easy to just do what he’s told and forget that it’s good to have a mind of his own.

It’s honestly a coincidence when Bucky finds himself outside of Portland State University’s admissions office. It’s just a few blocks south of the coffee shop, and he stares up at the building for a long moment as students mill about. He presses his right hand into Thor’s fur.

“Whaddaya think, Thor?” Bucky grins down at his dog, who pants back up at him. “Yeah, can’t hurt.”

He walks out 15 minutes later with a catalogue and an admissions packet. If nothing else, he decides, it could give him some ideas of what he could do in his post-military life.

 

It’s almost 4 by the time Bucky, sipping at a hot chocolate, sees Steve approach their meeting place by the Umbrella Man statue. He’s carrying a ridiculous number of bags, and Bucky can’t help but laugh at how weighed down he looks. He’s off the bench with a hushed “Stay!” to Thor, meeting Steve halfway and grabbing a few of the bags from him.

“Productive shopping trip?”

“I think so. Productive job hunt?”

“Eh, it was okay.” Bucky grins at Steve, “Got a few resumes in, stopped by the university.”

“Yeah?” Steve looks intrigued, “Anything interesting?”

They head to bench where Thor is sitting, patiently waiting with a doggy grin on his face. His tail wags excitedly the closer they get, and the conversation is put on hold while Steve leans over to provide vigorous belly rubs. It leaves Bucky feeling warm, content – the way Thor rolls onto his back and how Steve’s face absolutely lights up. It’s one of those moments that Bucky knows will always stick with him.

Once Thor has had his fill, Steve and Bucky plop back on the bench. Bucky grabs his hot chocolate from where he left it on the armrest, and offers Steve the one he’d bought for him. Steve takes it gratefully, taking a long sip and leaning back on the bench.

“There’re a lot of really great programs. I, uh, was hoping maybe you’d look through them with me?” Bucky knows he could decide on his own, but one of the perks of having his best friend _right fucking there_ is that sometimes he can ask for a little help.

Steve smiles, bright and open and so good, “Yeah, of course. How about we grab some take out, look it over at home?”

That sounds really, really good. Bucky presses his flesh hand into Thor’s coat, scratching his neck softly. The dog leans into the touch, into Bucky’s leg. “Perfect.”

 

They end up getting Thai food, because they’re both pizza snobs and all the Chinese food is trying way too hard to be gourmet. Bucky has a very specific preference in Chinese food – it needs to be absolute garbage, full of MSG, and half the fun is the knowledge that it’s not _actually_ Chinese. He likes the fact that it’s a weird amalgamation of Chinese and American, that it exists because generally, white people aren’t all that great at accepting food they think is different. The West coast does a lot of things right, but Bucky misses the shitty Chinese take-out of New York.

So they get Thai food, instead, and it’s awesome. Bucky’s digging into a plate of pad see ew at the kitchen island while Steve’s nose runs through eating his plate of extra spicy chili noodles. They’ve got a good spread going, with spring rolls, curry puffs, and other delicious fried appetizers taking up a good portion of the counter. The rest holds the admissions papers and Bachelor’s programs list.

So far, they’ve crossed out the definitely nots, which include accounting, math, and computer science. Bucky’ll admit that they’re interesting subjects, and he knows he could do them, but there’s something about math that makes him uncomfortable. Steve doesn’t ask why those programs are vetoed, but Bucky thinks maybe he knows anyway.

He’s seriously considering history, though, and Steve laughs when he mentions it.

“No, no, I’m not laughing at you!” Steve quickly covers his ass when Bucky levels a suitably unimpressed stare at him, “I’m just imagining you doing a PhD and becoming a history professor at some college, and you wearing one of those horrible tweed jackets.”

Bucky snorts, “The history professor aesthetic might not really be my thing. Think I could swing the ‘history professor that looks like a greaser’ look?”

“Buck, you could swing any damn look you want and you know it.”

They eventually pull out Bucky’s computer and dive into looking deeper at each program, starting with history and ending with mechanical engineering. Between the two of them, Bucky narrows it down to three majors – history, anthropology, and applied linguistics – and he puts everything away feeling a small amount of accomplishment. If the whole job thing doesn’t work out, Bucky knows he can put his G.I. Bill to good use, and that alone makes him grin at Steve.

Steve beams back.

 

The next morning, Bucky lets himself sleep in until 10 am. He can hear Steve puttering around downstairs, the clacking of Thor’s nails against the floor as he follows Steve around. It smells faintly like coffee and sizzling meat. It’s enough to lure Bucky out of the warm comfort of his bed and into the shower. He doesn’t linger in the spray of hot water, padding naked back to his room to air dry under the ceiling fan. He does towel dry his stump – he learned the hard way not long after getting the arm that if it’s even slightly damp when sliding it on, it will chafe and it won’t be pleasant for anyone.

By the time he’s attached the arm, listened for the beep meaning it’s ready to go, and pulled on his clothes for the day – a red long-sleeved Henley and a pair of well-worn and very comfortable gray jeans – he’s more than ready for whatever the hell Steve cooked that smells so fucking good.

Except, when he gets to the kitchen, Steve is nowhere to be seen. Sure, there’s a foil-covered plate on the counter with a post-it that says “EAT ME,” and that’s very tempting, but Bucky sort of just wants to sit with Steve. Thor is suspiciously missing, too, and as Bucky pours himself a cup of coffee from the machine, he realizes that Steve stole his dog to go for a run.

Well, if Steve would rather spend his morning hitting the pavement than hanging out with Bucky, then Bucky wasn’t going to feel even remotely guilty about chowing down on the eggs, beef kielbasa, and rye toast that was left for him.

It’s not raining, at least, a nice surprise for mid-November, but there’s a definite chill to the air when he heads out into the backyard to look around. It’s not bad, though, and he heads back inside to grab his computer and book and hunkers down at the little table to enjoy the sun while he can.

 

He hears Steve come back at around noon, and Thor rushes out the back door to slobber all over Bucky while Steve probably showers. Thor’s too big to get in Bucky’s lap, but it doesn’t stop him from trying and Bucky lets him do his thing before sliding out of his chair to sit on the patio. He wraps his arms around Thor, hugging the big dog and rubbing his face into his fuzzy neck. A little knot of anxiety Bucky hadn’t even realized was there fades away, slowly, and he takes a deep breathe.

It dawns on him how much they really did the day before. He applied for eight jobs and still managed to talk to someone in a very busy admissions office. It was more than a little accomplishment, he realizes. It’s a big deal. And if he’s honest, Bucky will admit that Steve had a lot to do with the confidence that carried Bucky through it all.

Steve finds Bucky still clinging to Thor on the patio about 10 minutes later. He doesn’t say anything, but Bucky feels him sit down next to him and Thor and the next thing he knows, Steve has his arms wrapped around both him and the dog.

It’s so fucking nice.    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The umbrella man is a real statue at Pioneer Place right by the eastbound MAX. It’s not actually called the umbrella man – it’s official title is “Allow Me” but I don’t actually know anyone who calls it that.
> 
> The coffee shop mentioned is loosely based on Case Study, which is at SW 10th and Yamhill in Downtown Portland. They've got pretty good espresso and the layout of the shop is really, really cool.
> 
> I occasionally talk about fic and frequently obsess over Bucky and Steve on [my tumblr](http://getluckywithbucky.tumblr.com/).


End file.
